Fallen from Grace
by Rockstar with a Vendetta
Summary: One-Shot. Owen of Jesslaw is taught a lesson about the weaknesses of those he loves the most. Written for the Tortall Fanfiction SMACKDOWN. For Quatre-sama. Sixth place in the 2010 Summer Ficship Competitions.


**Poor Owen. :/**

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The wedding couldn't have been more perfect.

Owen thought the moment he was knighted would be the proudest moment of his life, but he hadn't reckoned with Margarry; as he watched her dancing with Warric, her gown elegantly bearing the colors of Jesslaw, he realized a shield could not compare to love.

She caught his eye and smiled impishly. Warric was almost a head shorter than she was and with twice as many left feet, but she was a kind girl and didn't let him see her pained winces as he trod on her toes. She was well-versed in the art of dancing with oafs—all knights learned the steps as pages, but there were always those like Owen who would forever be inept in that respect.

As the number ended and Warric blushingly kissed her hand, Margarry found her way back to Owen's side. He almost burst with happiness as she comfortably linked her arm with his. It was like she was meant to be there.

"Do you know where Father is?" she asked breathlessly. Her cheeks were pink—a little too much wine, perhaps, he thought fondly—and her eyes sparkled. "I promised him a dance, but I haven't had the chance."

Owen glanced around, but didn't spot Wyldon in the throng of people. Still, the palace's great hall was a magnificently sized room. There were plenty of places a man could isolate himself to avoid the main crowd.

"You know him," he dismissed. "He's not much for social gatherings. Lady Vivenne has to drag him to most of the parties."

"You can call her 'Vivenne' now," Margarry teased. "She's not just your sweetheart's intimidating mother anymore."

Owen grinned at her. "That'll take some getting used to," he said. "She's always intimidating."

"Oh, she is not," she scoffed. Her eyes swept through the crowd and she suddenly brightened. "Oh, there's Cath. She said she had some, uh, charms and advice to give me."

"What kind of charms?" he asked naively. "Should I come, too?"

She blushed and said airily, "No, no that's okay—it's strictly, uh, womanly stuff."

He decided he probably didn't want to come after all. Growing up without his mother had left him pretty ignorant when it came to women, and Margarry had come a long way in schooling him (he wisely decided not to tell her about his comment about Kel's breasts; he figured she probably wouldn't take his tactless youth as much of an excuse).

"Ah," Owen said awkwardly. "Well, okay then. Tell Lady Cathrea I said hi. I'm going to get some fresh air out on the balcony, and then I'll go find Sir—uh, my lord—W-Wyl—your father."

He might be able to call Vivenne by her given name after awhile, but he didn't think Wyldon's name would ever come easily to his lips.

Margarry smiled and said, "Okay, dear." A pleasant chill shivered up his spine. "I'll find you in a little while."

He returned her contagious smile widely and kissed her briefly. He tasted sweet melon wine and honey, and he decided in his whole life he would never get tired of kissing her wonderful mouth. She flounced off toward her older sister, her brown curls bouncing on her shoulders. Owen half-smiled after her before turning and slipping discreetly out on the balcony.

The night air was cool, refreshing. He took a deep breath and caught the delicate scent of the royal gardens. He felt like there was magic in the air, as silly as it sounded, and nothing could ruin the greatest day of his life.

"Sir, not here—"

"The palace is swarming with people, this is the only private place—"

"No, I mean we're at their wedding, we can't just—oh."

Owen's cheeks felt warm. The voices were coming from below the balcony, lovers meeting for a clandestine tryst in the gardens. He would have—should have, in sickening retrospect—left it alone. After all, Margarry was waiting for him, and he had cooled off, and what couples did in their own private time was really their business—but it was the way she talked, like a guest of his wedding, and then the very sound of his voice, because it was a voice he had heard everyday for several years giving orders and advice.

_It sounds like_—but his mind cut his thoughts in half, denying his suspicions. And again, he thought to himself that he should turn around, and he even managed to back away from the rail a couple paces when he heard it: a murmur, and then a gasp.

Curiosity battled with wisdom and won. Owen stepped quietly to the rail and leaned over as far as he could go. He thought weakly, _It's surely just him and his wife, the wedding probably just brought back good memories, that's all, they're just being romantic_. But he knew that wasn't true, because she was a good, proper lady and never would accept more than a tender kiss in public.

Behind him, the light from the hall illuminated in shadowy detail that gardens below the balcony. His eyes searched and found two figures on a bench. They were blurred, and partially blocked by big well-tended leaves, but he wasn't going to fool himself anymore and he had to know.

And then, there was a brief movement, in which one figured tilted its head back. Light slanted across the face, and Owen's jaw dropped as he recognized Keladry of Mindelan, her expression full of revolting want. At her neck, his lips grazing her jaw before claiming her mouth in a hot, open kiss, was Wyldon of Cavall.

Something lurched in his belly, and Owen thought he would heave the cake and wine and delicious foods on which he had gorged himself earlier. _I don't believe it_, he thought in horror. _Not them—not together—he loves Vivenne, he would never—and she's just a little older than me—than Margarry—and they wouldn't—because they're good honorable people—_

But it was over, and Owen knew it. And maybe it wouldn't have even been so terrible if it wasn't for that fact that Wyldon knew exactly where to place his hands, what to stroke and what to caress, just like she knew what to do with her tongue than made him growl. They had done this before, he realized, a gross mixture of shame and anger blurring his vision. This wasn't the first time at all.

And finally, he didn't want to see anymore.

He bolted away, tripping over his big, stupid feet in his hurry to escape the balcony. He banged against the huge balcony doors as he stumbled back into the hall. People nearby stared curiously at him, and he was suddenly brought back to reality, grounded back to where he was: at his wedding, where his new bride was coming toward him with a smile on her face, and just outside those doors his friend and father-in-law were—were—

"Are you okay, Owen?" Margarry asked, laying a cool hand against his brow. Her eyes searched his in concern. "You're looking ill."

"It's—" he began, and swallowed. He tried to smile. "It's just the festivities getting to me, I guess. I'm not used to this much excitement."

She smiled understandingly, and he hated himself. "I know," she said. "But just think, soon you'll be making your name as a knight and I'll be a lady of Jesslaw. We'll be the envy of everyone!" For a moment his heart eased a little, just a little, though his soul still ached, but he knew that he had Margarry and he would protect her at all cost. Then she said, "We'll be just as happy as the king and queen, or Sir Myles and his wife. I only hope one day we can even have the kind of marriage that Mother and Father have."

She rested her head contentedly on his shoulder. Owen gazed down at her, pale and dizzy. And he knew that nothing would ever be the same.

"Yes," he said heavily. "We'll be just like them."

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